Wordgrove Post & Review

Quoted in the Grove:
Learning music by reading about it is like making love by mail.
~Luciano Pavarotti

Music is only love looking for words.
~Lawrence Durrell

Love cannot express the idea of music, while music may give an idea of love.
~Louis-Hector Berlioz

~~

Posted from the Grove:

Special Request
~Tommy Emmanuel (Aussie guitarist extraordinaire)

Classical Gas
Blisters the fretboard
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S33tWZqXhnk

Over The Rainbow
Sweetens the sound
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0cHeNscKZN0

~

My guitar is not a thing. It is an extension of myself. It is who i am.
~Joan Jett

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Prewritten for Thurs (01/19) @6pm PT/9 ET is: romp, balcony, sloppy
(any combination, 2 of 3)

~~

@Writers Platform

Prewritten: signature, polka

~Greymane: untitled

He played every year at the Polkafest
but none of the girls seemed to be impressed
They all were immune
to his signature tune
accordion to what he confessed

~

~MissMerry: Prewritten by MM

Opalescent energy floes
Aurora Borealis
Shimmering in the northern skies
wrapped in patient, silent stars.
The souls of our loved ones for whom we cried
the collected energies of all who died
Illuminated.
Neon signature of God.
Electric waves of the sun
let us have a peek
The spirits dance.

~

~BarTalk: Lombardo’s

~~

Impromptu: guitar, cured, shelter
(any combination, 2 of 3)

~Greenie: The Shelter of The Grove

In the shelter of the Grove
guitar strums a tune
music fills the air
curing an ache in my soul
leaving me at peace

~

~Greymane: Reaching

Echoes on the silent winds get colder all the time
They tell me winter’s come again in frozen pantomime
I call on fallen memories that shelter me from view
I wrapped my dreams in cured disease I could not battle through
I placed a lonely song upon the wings of my guitar
and prayed the sound would track you down no matter where you are
I reach forever reaching for the presence of your soul
to place inside the place I hide the things I can’t control

~

~MissMerry: MM Impromptu

There is no security in the life of a guitar player, but FLoyd played guitar. FLoyd BECAME his guitar. After a few drinks and a hit on the pipe, his fingers flew across the frets. The cigarette smoke swirled around like fog, the sounds of voices settled, quieting down until the only sound in the room was the band, and Floyds guitar.

Face squinched into the “I’m about to cum” look, he stroked his guitar like a lover at first, then frantic in the solo. In his groove, he never missed a note. He enveloped the room, every face turned toward him, even the barkeep standing, hands still, watching Floyd play.

FLoyd lived the life… for his habits, for his dick, and for his music. There was no way he could be cured of any of it. It was not just a lifestyle, it was his LIFE.

FLoyd died happily in the arms of one of his favorite hookers. His heart burst after playing 3 sets at the Pearl then finishing off a quart of Jack, a couple of grams of coke, and an Adderall someone in the bar had given him.

He had played well that night. He had lived like he played – full speed, balls to the wall, all or nothing… His was a life that ended in success. The recordings we have of him don’t do him justice though. You kinda just had to know him.

~

~BarTalk: Gimme Shelter … and a ku

~ . ~